Night Shift Mischief: We Love Stupid People
by ImaSupernaturalCSI
Summary: And who says that solving crimes can't be fun? Danny, Lindsay, and the rest of the night shift crew stumble on some interesting cases...and some very stupid people.


**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of "CSI:NY"; they belong to Anthony E. Zuiker and CBS.**

**Author's Note: Inspired by a story on the MSN homepage today, I decided to actually have the night shift crew WORK for once...but still have a ton of fun doing it. All these cases were inspired by the article. I highly recommend going to find it because man, there are some DUMB people out there.**

Nobody liked working the graveyard shift- the seven to seven shift that meant you slept during the day and had to be coherent at three in the morning because some moron decided rather than divorce his/her wife/husband, they stuck rat poison or ground-up pain pills in their spouse's chicken noodle soup. It was shifts like this, and crimes like this that made one realize A) It truly was the City That Never Sleeps and B) someone needed to give the damn city some Ambien.

Danny Messer didn't mind working the graveyard shift for two reasons:

Lindsay.

Monroe.

Ever since an ill-fated night several years ago, when Marty Pino had conned them into a late-night game of Hide and Seek in which he hid in a refrigerator, he, Lindsay, Marty, and sometimes even Adam Ross and Sid Hammerback (who they had coerced into their nighttime antics) had worked every single night shift there was. Or as many as Mac Taylor could get away with scheduling them for without issues from Internal Affairs, OSHA, or Sid Hammerback's wife.

Tonight was no exception, as he and Lindsay responded to a call of a carjacking at 117 and Central Park West. But when they arrived on scene, they found an interesting sight.

Crime scenes were usually very serious affairs. Cops milled around looking important, chatting up anyone who might've not seen a thing, blood, sadness…this, however, was a whole different story. An ambulance was parked nearby, treating a young kid who looked like he'd stepped out of a Goth punk rock convention (Danny was amazed the EMT treating the cut on his forehead hadn't gotten sliced to ribbons by the guy's _Mohawk_), and an older woman who looked like she could be Lindsay's grandma Edna back in Montana.

"What…ah," Danny glanced around. "What happened here?"

"Dan-O!" Don Flack's voice greeted him. He had a huge smile.

"We missed something," Lindsay muttered. "We definitely missed something."

"You bet your ass you did," Flack said with a grin. "Check it out, so Ozzy the Metalhead over there tried to carjack Granny Smith's Buick."

Lindsay looked around. "Flack, there's an 09' Chevrolet Camaro sitting down the block. Why-"

"Hold on, Monroe, I'm getting there," Flack replied. "So anyway, he gets in the car and starts to drive off. Granny decides she's not lettin' this young punk get away with it, so she starts beatin' on him with her purse."

Danny surveyed the street. "Skid marks, here."

"Yeah, Granny yanked the wheel a couple of times," Flack said. "But that ain't the best part-Granny finally decides she isn't gonna strong-arm him into pullin' over, right? So she grabs a ballpoint pen from her purse and threatens to poke him in the eye unless he pulls over."

"And he did?" Lindsay asked in shock.

"Apparently, twenty piercings is nothing compared to a Bic to the eye," Flack chortled. "I can't wait until his buddies get ahold of him, I swear to you, stuff like this does not happen in real life." He laughed. "Looks like you got an easy one tonight, huh guys?"

"Every now and then we get lucky," Danny replied. "I doubt if the rest of the night'll be this easy, though."

Then his cell rang. "And on that note, home invasion out in Flushing," he told Lindsay. "Later, Flack! Oh, and listen…don't get too close to that kid, you'll put your eye out!"

Flack rolled his eyes. "Cute, Messer, real cute."

* * *

Forty minutes later (light traffic, another shocker), Danny and Lindsay stood on a porch of a modest two-story home in Flushing, Queens. The door was busted off the hinges. "Neighbors said they saw someone go inside, they called 911 right away, but they don't know if the guy left or not."

"So he might still be in there," Lindsay whispered. She pulled her gun from the holster and nodded. "Got your back."

Danny took one step inside the door, sweeping the living room carefully. "Clear," he whispered, and Lindsay got in behind him. Lindsay went upstairs to scope things out. She gently eased open a bedroom door. It clearly was a little girls' room, with pink and white frillyness everywhere. As she got closer to the bed, she stepped on something. Red lights flashed and an eerie voice began belting out "Jesus Loves Me." Lindsay screamed and fell backwards onto the floor.

Danny hotfooted it into the room two seconds later. "Montana?" he yelled in alarm, seeing her on the floor. Then- "What the hell?" He bent down and picked up the singing menace- a fuzzy white rabbit clutching a stuffed Bible. He pressed down on the paws again, and the rabbit's cheeks lit up and it began singing again, it's mouth moving robotically. He burst out laughing, holding the rabbit in Lindsay's face. "Peter Cottontail got your tongue, Montana?"

"That thing is freakin' creepy, who would give a _kid_ that thing?" Lindsay demanded as she stood up. "The upstairs is clear-shut up!" she demanded, as Danny hadn't stopped laughing. "What about the downstairs, you jerk."

"All clear," Danny said. "I got pictures of the door and some footprints on the carpeting."

"Let's go take a look downstairs again," Lindsay suggested.

"Anything to get away from Fluffy Bunny?"

"Shut up!"

Downstairs, the two of them checked the living room over. "Without the homeowners here, it's impossible to tell what's missing," Lindsay said.

There was a scratching in the kitchen, making both detectives stand up straight and battle ready. "Thought you said it was clear," Lindsay whispered.

"It _was_," Danny replied.

A black shape came barreling from the kitchen, pouncing on Danny. The blonde detective was knocked onto his back, barely missing the sofa arm. The something licked his face.

Lindsay burst out laughing. "Aw, he's so cute!"

The black lab puppy rolled to the floor off Danny's chest. It was holding something in it's mouth. HE dropped it next to Danny's hands, waiting patiently.

"Linds, take a look at this," he said. He picked up the small object with his thumb and forefinger. "Wallet."

"Does it belong to the homeowners?"

Danny opened it, coming across a New York driver's license. He held it up to compare to a family portrait on the fireplace. "Ah…that'd be a no," he confirmed. "I bet it belongs to our perp."

"Danny, the puppy has fabric in his teeth. I bet it's from our robber."

Danny tilted the wallet. "Andrew Christmann, The Bronx," he read with a grin. He pulled out his cell. "I'll call Flack."

Lindsay knelt down and petted the puppy, who adored the attention. "Who's a good boy?" Lindsay cooed. "Little puppy just busted a big bad robber. Who's a good boy?"

"I got a feeling it's not over yet," Danny replied. "Flack?...Hey, Messer…yeah, got a tip for ya on the home invasion in Queens…"

* * *

Back at the lab, Adam Ross was poring over surveillance footage from a bodega robbery in Little Italy. He rubbed his eyes and fought to stay awake.

Hands grabbed him from behind. "Ross!" a voice yelled in his ear, and Adam fell out of his chair, hitting the cold lab floor _hard_.

"Son of a bitch!" he yelled.

"Whoa," Sheldon Hawkes' voice said. "Wow, didn't think you even knew words like that." He offered a hand as Adam gingerly stood up, rubbing his elbow. "Sorry, man."

"I'm good, it's good….yeah, I'm good," Adam replied, his face beet red. "Don't ever do that to me again."

"Gotcha," Hawkes said. "What're ya watching?"

"Surveillance footage from a bodega holdup in Little Italy," he replied. "Two guys with guns knock over the register, bust the cooler doors and take off."

"Any luck with IDing them?"

Adam shook his head. "Nothin' yet." With that, he hit PLAY again.

Hawkes watched over his shoulder for a few minutes. Then, "Adam. Stop the tape."

Adam hit PAUSE. "Got something?" he asked him.

The ME-turned-CSI nodded. "Oh yeah. Run it back a little…there. Stop it there."

Adam froze the picture. "What did you…ohhh…" He blinked. "Are you freakin' serious?"

Hawkes laughed. "Oh yeah. Can you zoom in on that?"

Adam pressed a couple of keys, and the video gave them a close up of one of the robbers' upper arms. "Zoom in and clear it up," Hawkes said. "There."

"What an idiot," Adam said, rolling his eyes.

There, in black ink for the world to see, in a barbed wire hoop, was the name "KeyShawn Reynolds, 05-27-92." There was a dash, and then a space after it.

"He tattooed his name and his _birthday_ on _himself_?" Adam couldn't believe it.

Hawkes nodded. "Well, unless KeyShawn is his boyfriend…" He grinned. "Cross reference that with the New York Public Education database." He shook his head. "Wonder if they'll let him tattoo his arrest date in the open space?"

"I love stupid people," Adam declared, hitting print so they would have the photo in hard copy.

* * *

The sight before Lindsay Monroe's eyes was a sad one, a far turnaround from the crazy weirdness of the rest of the night. The vic couldn't have been more than twenty-five, dressed in a wifebeater and black athletic shorts. Obviously had gone for a run in the park, only to be dead on the sidewalk no more than an hour later from a stab wound to the abdomen.

"Guess you'll have to do some actual work tonight, huh Messer?" Flack said as he came over. "No ID on his person. Also no wallet or jewelry."

"So either the perp took it with him, or this wasn't a robbery," Lindsay said, stating the obvious.

"I can see why they upgraded you to detective, Monroe," Flack teased.

Just then, off in the grass, they saw something light up, and "Love Shack" by the B-52s started playing. "'Love Shack'?" Lindsay queried, getting up to check out the noise. Lying in the grass was a battered Motorola cell phone. CALL FROM NIKKI lit up the caller ID.

"Answer it," Danny told Flack.

Flack raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"Answer the damned phone!"

Flack opened his mouth to protest, but Danny held up a hand, then pointed deliberately at the phone. Flack shook his head as he flipped the phone open. "Uh…yeah?"

"_Where are you?"_ came a female voice. "_Shelby asked if you could pick up some soda before you came over here."_

Flack glanced at Danny. Danny urged him to keep talking. "I…yeah, sure, " he said. "Where am I supposed to meet you guys again?"

"_God, Larry, you're such a dork. Lenny's place_."

"Yeah, yeah…OK, I'm gettin' into a cab right now," Flack said, his eyes wide. Danny made a "keep talking" signal with his hand. He stepped up to the phone.

"What is the address?" Danny growled in his best Indian/Middle Eastern/Definitely Not From This Country accent.

Lindsay had to walk away so she could laugh safely without being overheard.

"Yeah, uh…what's the address again?" Flack asked.

"_Larry, you dork."_ The girl rattled off an address that Danny committed to memory.

"Kay, be there in a bit," Flack said, then hung up the phone. "Holy hell, I can't believe I just did that."

"We show up there, our murderer will be there," Lindsay said, rejoining the group. "I can get Hawkes and Adam over there to meet Flack."

"How do we know who it is?" Flack asked them. "This phone could belong to you guys for all I know."

"Oh!" Lindsay said with a grin. "I totally have an idea."

* * *

Adam Ross stood outside the house, the found cell phone in his hand. "Knock on the damn door, Adam!" Danny muttered from his place on the wall next to him, out of sight of the person who would answer the door.

Adam shook his head. "Guys, I don't do undercover," he protested.

"It's not that hard to act like a drunk teenager!" Lindsay hissed. "God, even _Mac_ could do it!"

Adam rapped on the door. After a second, the door opened, and a clearly underage, clearly smashed high school girl answered it. "Yeah?" It was the voice of Nikki, the girl Flack as Larry had spoken to earlier.

"Hey…I…uh…I'm looking for Larry," Adam stammered.

Flack slapped his forehead from his place near the backyard.

"He….uh…he forgot his phone, asked me to bring it to him," Adam added.

There was a pause. Then the girl, who was clearly too drunk to realize he wasn't the guy she'd talked to on the phone, opened the door. Danny pulled her outside and gave her to Lindsay. The girl barely noticed the exchange as Danny and Adam stepped inside. "Which one of you all is Larry?" Danny demanded at the top of his lungs to be heard over the Chris Brown tune on the stereo.

A guy in the back raised his hand-the bottle of Jack Daniels still attached. "Yeah, I'm Larry."

"You left your phone in Central Park," Danny said, holding it out to him. His arm moved just enough to reveal the badge clipped to his belt.

"Cops!" someone yelled, and all hell broke loose. Adam could've literally rode a wave of alcohol out the door if he'd wanted-luckily, Hawkes, Lindsay and Flack were there.

Larry, for his part, tried to be smart and run. Or stupid. Danny didn't care either way as he slammed the kid down on the table and cuffed his hands. He hauled the kid to his feet. "Change your ringtone," he muttered. "You're not old enough to even appreciate the song 'Love Shack' for what it's worth."

* * *

Seven a.m. rolled around and Mac Taylor arrived for work promptly on the dot. He was amazed, for once, to find all of his night shift staff working. Lindsay and Danny were running a sample in Trace, and down the hall, Adam was sitting in front of the AV lab screens. Hawkes was tapping his foot waiting for a match in DNA.

Mac came into the Trace lab. "Morning, Mac," Danny greeted him. "Nice day."

"Nice day," Mac acknowledged. Something was up. He could tell. "How was your night?"

"We love stupid people," Lindsay declared from the corner.

She didn't offer anything further…and Mac didn't even want to know.


End file.
